In the Philippines corruption has stopped being a distant scandal and become an everyday crisis. It weakens institutions, drains public safety, and inflicts a psychological toll on ordinary people. Recent revelations about flood control projects have jolted public anger and exposed how graft now jeopardises not just democracy but mental health itself.
Since 2022, the Marcos administration has allocated enormous sums, amounting to more than ₱545 billion across nearly 9,855 flood control projects, for initiatives meant to protect communities from devastating storms. But in Senate testimony, former engineers admitted that many of those projects were deliberately overpriced, constructed poorly, or never built at all, allowing “kickbacks” of around 20% or more to officials and contractors. Some so-called “ghost projects” were even declared complete in official records while no physical structure exists on the ground.
When people discover that infrastructure meant to protect them was corrupted, the impact is more than anger. It erodes belief that the state cares. That disbelief seeps into daily life. In Bulacan and other flood-prone provinces, residents who endure repeated inundations now live not only with fear of disaster but also with the certainty that government promises of protection are hollow. The sense of betrayal is deeply personal.
Mental health professionals warn that chronic exposure to institutional betrayal, especially in a country facing rising climate risk, can trigger anxiety, insomnia, hypervigilance, and depressive symptoms. While there is limited direct data on the Philippines, international research links persistent distrust and learned helplessness to shrinking social support, broken networks, and internalised despair. This pattern is visible on the ground. Families lose faith in neighbours and leaders, and civic engagement withers.
In communities dominated by political dynasties, corruption becomes part of daily expectation. When bribery is common knowledge, it reshapes how people interact. Doubt enters conversations about local leaders. Citizens question whether relief is given out of duty or out of self-interest. These suspicions corrode neighbourhood cohesion and intensify isolation.
The mental health impact is not spread evenly. The poorest barangays suffer most, as they are exposed to floods, have weaker health systems, and see little hope for justice. For them despair is not an abstract idea but a lived reality.
Public anger erupted in September 2025, when tens of thousands marched in Manila and across the country under banners such as Baha sa Luneta and the Trillion Peso March, demanding accountability for infrastructure fraud. The demonstrations drew students, churches, civic organisations, and displaced families. In response, the government created the Independent Commission for Infrastructure to investigate past and current projects. Whether this new body can restore trust remains uncertain.
Protest can be a source of strength. It gives voice, solidarity, and relief. Yet it can also deepen wounds if repression follows or change proves elusive. When accountability stalls, cynicism spreads, reinforcing the sense of helplessness that corruption plants in people’s minds.
Addressing this crisis requires more than arrests and trials, though those are essential. Transparency through open data, rigorous auditing, and consistent enforcement must be paired with mental health support in communities that suffer the most. Trauma counselling and psychosocial programmes should be part of disaster response. Schools and civic groups can also play a role by teaching empathy, citizenship, and accountability as values in themselves.
Corruption in the Philippines does not only rob the treasury. It robs people of their sense of safety, belonging, and dignity. It turns disaster into despair and public service into betrayal. Healing will mean more than reforming laws. It will mean restoring trust that government can serve its people, and restoring hope that citizens are valued not as numbers on a balance sheet but as human beings whose lives matter.
Marisol Blanco is a governance advocate who writes on corruption, democracy, and social resilience. She believes that tackling graft is inseparable from protecting human dignity and mental health.